


I've Got it Bad, and I Got it Good

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Leverage
Genre: Crack, M/M, Sickfic, Soup, ish, poor attempt at comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Eliot is sick and Hardison pretty much sucks at it</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Got it Bad, and I Got it Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thalialunacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bad Case of Loving You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830098) by [thalialunacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy). 



> I was sick, and Thalia wrote me sick!Hardison fic. Now she's sick so she gets Hardison-made-Eliot-sick!fic.
> 
> This is weird, and cracky, and hers is lots better go read it first. Sorry, Portlandia.
> 
> And the end is only the way it is because I was about to post when I got your text that you were about to go work out even though you're sick cuz you cray cray, girl. WWED.

_Dammit, Hardison!_ Sounds pretty damn funny when Eliot’s so congested Hardison’s not sure whether to stick him in a steam shower for a couple hours or just make him a whole bed out of tissues. The shower might be fun for both of them but the tissue thing sounds pretty hilarious.

“Dammit, Hardison!”

“And how is this my fault, hm?” Hardison says without looking up. He’s a hacker, thanks, very busy with important things to do, and in no way distracted by a flushed and sweaty Eliot. “This is all on you, dude.”

“I didn’t ask to get your damn devil cold, man! I never get sick, this is ridiculous.”

“Hey man, I told you I was real sick. It ain’t my fault I’m a handsome devil and you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“Fuck you, Hardison.”

Hardison finally looks up from his laptop, makes with the considering eyebrows. “If you really think that’s gonna help…I mean, you’re kinda blotchy and gross but I could take one for the team if that’s what you need, baby.”

“Dammit,” Eliot growls, sneezes, doesn’t finish the thought, and stomps out of the room.

Even sick as a dog he looks like he could take over a small country, and Hardison doesn’t care to think what it says about him that he thinks that’s sexy as hell.

 

He’s located the closest Kleenex distribution center and is coordinating with Parker when Eliot storms back in.

“Hardison,” he says, all calm-like, and in Hardison’s ear Parker sucks in a breath. _’Is that Eliot?’_

“Yeah…?” He says to both of them.

“What is this?”

_’Why is he using his Eliot-voice?’_

“What?”

Parker huffs. _’The one he uses when he explains that killing you is actually doing you a favor. I don’t know what you did but I’m sending in backup.’_

Hardison cuts the com and stands up, kinda wary because, yeah, Parker’s not wrong about that voice. Eliot takes two more measured steps into the room and Hardison gets a look at what he’s holding. And laughs.

“That? That’s soup, man.”

“Soup?” Eliot lifts the can, hectic flush on his cheeks and fever-glint in his eye and damn, he looks like he just went ten rounds with the Russian mob or something and _Dammit, Hardison! No! Sick, not sexy._ “Soup? Hardison, this—this is not _soup_ and I don’t want it in my home!”

“Excuse you?” Hardison kinda-squeaks, yeah, because, rude. “It certainly is soup, says so right on the can.”

Eliot moves to stand right up close beside him, which is nice, and then coughs right in his ear, which isn’t. “You know what else it says on the can? There’s like fifteen ingredients in here I can’t even pronounce. And,” he shoves the can in Hardison’s face, price-tag-side up. “Hardison, you paid six dollars for a can of soup, are you kidding me?”

“Yes, Eliot, I did. I paid six dollars for the finest pesticide-free cage-free free-range free-trade debt-free free-as-a-bird fancy-as-shit chicken noodle soup that money can buy. Man, I even went out to the farm and met the chicken who gave its life for this can of perfection. Almost got talked into joining a cult while I was there but I can tell you, that bird had a good life.”

“Hardison!” The way he says it, Hardison thinks it’s probably at least the third time Eliot’s said his name which is fair, he’d gotten a little caught up in his rant. But that store had been freaky, man, and it’s not like he’d voluntarily go hang out in a hippy grocery co-op for just anyone, so he’s pretty sure some thanks are in order. 

“What, man?”

Eliot’s still holding the damn can of not-as-good-as-homemade chicken soup, but sometime between thirty seconds ago and now he got his other hand wrapped up in Hardison’s scarf and, hello, that’s not so bad. Neither is the way his eyes kinda sparkle when he’s glaring up at him all up close like this. 

There’s a quiet gasp from the doorway. Sophie, Hardison’s upstairs brain supplies helpfully. The awkward cough is Nate, and, wait for it — There she is: “Eliot’s killing Hardison with soup!” Parker’s holding one of those huge yellow Ikea bags full of Kleenex; a few boxes go tumbling when she pushes her way between Nate and Sophie. 

“Um, Parker, I’m not sure that’s exactly…” Sophie’s edging out the door, one hand out like she’s trying to Jedi Mind Trick Parker into following her. 

“Oh for the love of…” Eliot shoulders past Hardison, grabs his gym bag from beside the door. “I’m going out. No one better be here when I get back.”

“Should he be working out when he’s…?” Nate asks in the silence after the door cracks shut.

Parker, already halfway through building a Kleenex box fort, chirps from the vicinity of Sophie’s knees, “Sure he should. Never know when we might need him to punch someone when he’s sick, it’s good practice.”

“WWED, man,” Hardison shrugs and goes to fire up the stove and pray that Eliot owns a can opener. “What would Eliot do.”


End file.
